Note: Chapters 25, 26, & 27 were once Chapter 15

Chapter 25

Searching

January, 1989

Owen

Every year at this time Owen's mother would point to the brightest star in the sky and claim it guided the Magi to Bethlehem - always leading him home during the Christmas season. Tonight Owen sat alone atop the steel mill roof and wished he could figure out a way back. But he wasn't a child anymore. That was just a story, and these were just stars in the sky.

Slithering above the horizon in the clear southern sky, the sea serpent threatened the beautiful Andromeda. It was not lost on Owen that a month ago, when Abby relayed the story of Perseus, Cetus was nowhere to be seen. Above the city on the other side of the river, Cygnus, the cross-shaped swan constellation, swooped in to protect the princess in a way that Owen knew he wasn't capable.

He leaned back on the roof and stared at the stars overhead. Breathing out with a large puff, he watched the vapor swirl toward the heavens. It didn't get very far. After a few feet, the breeze and dry desert air swallowed the mist. He took a second breath and blew harder. No matter how hard he tried, his breath could not reach the stars.

He closed his eyes allowing his thoughts to drift. Colors danced in the darkness – dots of blue, yellow, red, green, orange and white blazed in twirling patterns. Abby was gone; she was lost to him.

After a short time, the cold from the metal roof pierced through his overcoat. The self-imposed isolation was paralyzing. He forced himself to get up and move around. Finally, bored with the distraction of the evening sky, he descended down the ladder into the mill.

Abby sat in the bowl of one of the giant crucibles studying the puzzling cube. Holding onto the handrail, trying to get her attention stood Javier. In his other hand, he held a long-stemmed, sun-yellow flower.

Who knows where he got that? Owen was somewhat comforted by the fact that Abby wasn't paying any more attention to Javier than to him.

Javier was startled by the noise of Owen's descent on the ladder. "Get out of here you little brat," Owen said.

Javier just shrugged, maintaining his hold on the crucible handle. In anger Owen grabbed hold of the tire iron and chased after him. "I said, 'get out of here.'" That got him moving. Javier tossed the flower into the crucible and jogged away, laughing at the sport.

After Javier left the mill, Owen replaced the sledgehammer beneath the push-bar. Dammit, this hammer does nothing for me! He returned to the crucible where and climbed in next to Abby. She didn't acknowledge him at all – as though she was not aware he was even there. The curved ceramic shell was cold and uncomfortable, but Abby didn't seem to mind.

She rotated the cube in her hand, studying the colored squares. Occasionally, she gave a few twists to the blocks to rearrange the pattern. She maneuvered the cube again, studying the changes. Owen couldn't figure out what she was doing, but she was captivated. He enjoyed watching her work. When he closed his eyes, he saw the same colored patterns whirling through his thoughts.

He wandered over to his sleeping area. He added a few more timbers to the fire, crawled onto the mattress, and pulled the red wool blanket over his head. Asleep, his dreams danced to the rotating colors of the Rubik's cube.

The next morning he awoke to the smells of warm spices wafting over from the distant wall. Perplexed, Owen uncovered his head and saw Jane studying the drawings on the wall. He sat up on the mattress, pulling the blanket around him for added warmth. "What are you doing here?" Owen asked.

She didn't turn away immediately from the drawings. Abby was mercifully out of sight, tucked away in the crucible. "I'm glad to see that you have a better understanding of blood magic than Elizabeth," she said. She pointed to the swirled lines on the wall. "You'll need it. The Tree of Life – very strong protection."

Owen wasn't interested in having a discussion about the drawings on the wall. He wasn't much interested in speaking to Jane at all. "What was in that blood you gave me?"

She turned around and walked tentatively. "I brought you a peace offering." She handed out a plastic mug containing chicken soup. "I thought you might be hungry."

Owen was always hungry. Pride was an emotion long lost on Owen. He grabbed the mug and slurped some down like it was a drink. Homemade and still warm, the soup tingled with a variety of spices. "What about the vial of blood?"

Jane's confidence waned and she had the grace to look contrite. "I'm sorry," she said. "It was sheep's blood." She shook her head and averted her eyes in toward the western wall. "I didn't understand … I didn't take you seriously." Jane finally faced Owen, turning away from the drawings. "I need your help."

"What could I possibly offer you?" Owen said as he finished the soup.

"Selkie," Jane said, "she's very upset. She is adrift in a river of fear and self-doubt. I thought, maybe you could bring her back. Please, I've tried everything. She won't answer me." He consented … for Selkie and, maybe, some more soup.

The walk had been long and quiet. He had made that same journey once before with exuberance while accompanying Selkie. Today, Selkie's lively joy was replaced by Jane's quiet determination.

Once in the apartment, Owen found himself framed by the door of Selkie's disordered bedroom. Selkie was positioned with her back to the wall surrounded by a maelstrom of disturbing drawings. Just as engrossed as Abby working on her cube, Selkie drew on the sketchpad. Owen cleared a spot next to her, creating some order in the confusion, and sat down with his back to the wall. She leaned her head on Owen's shoulder and continued her sketch. Silence can be disconcerting for many, but Owen was used to it.

Without saying a word, Owen watched as Selkie created a charcoal drawing of a bird soaring in the sky. The stars twinkled under the gaze of a full moon and a sea of charred tree trunks smoked beneath it.

As the bird began to take form, he broke the silence. "That's kind of a long neck for a duck," he said.

Selkie gave a slight, shy smile at the idea. "It's not a duck; it's supposed to be a swan."

"In that case," Owen said sheepishly, "I guess, it looks about right."

"Thank you for coming to see me," Selkie said as she shaded in the feathers of the swan. "Do you draw?"

"No," Owen answered, "I've never been very good with art."

"You should try," Selkie said. She put down her charcoal and flipped the sheet over. She handed the pad to Owen.

"It's your last page. Don't waste it on me," Owen said.

Selkie ignored his protest and handed him a pencil. "Just draw an oval … very lightly with the pencil. Take up most of the sheet." Owen did as she instructed.

Like he was in grade school again, Selkie patiently guided him step by step. The outline of a face began to take shape. The eyes were about halfway down the oval. She helped him position them from side to side. "The outsides can come to a point, but create a small loop on the inside for the tear ducts." He drew the tip of the nose about halfway between the eyes and the chin. Before drawing the mouth, he practiced a few times on the cardboard back of the sketch pad. After a few attempts, he decided to show her gnarly teeth with her lips slightly open.

With the outline of the face complete, Owen returned to the eyes to add more detail. Selkie chuckled over his struggle with the irises. "You don't want her to look frightened. When you draw the irises, you can sometime see the bottom, but never the top … it is covered by the eyelid," she instructed. "Here … look at my eyes to see how they appear."

They say that eyes are the window to the soul. Magnified by her tortoise shell-framed eyeglasses, Owen could see clear into Selkie's deep brown eyes. They were afflicted with sorrow and pain which wasn't present a few weeks ago. "I think I see," Owen said. Selkie helped walk him though the shading of the eyes.

Owen was sure that Selkie could complete a sketch like this in no time. Even though he was taking hours, complete with erasures, Selkie continued to guide him patiently through the drawing. She had to show him how to hold the pencils and which ones to use for lighter and darker shades. When they grew dull, she rubbed them on a piece of fine grit sandpaper, cleaning the sharpened tips in a block of Styrofoam. Owen sneezed from the whiff of wood and pencil dust, but she badgered him to continue. His fingers grew stiff from the effort. He had to flex them several times to relieve the pain. "This is a lot of work."

"You are gripping the pencils too tightly. Relax," Selkie said.

By the time he was complete, gray from nearby buildings shadowed through the bedroom. Owen stared at his work. It wasn't very good, but even with his mistakes and erasures and poor proportions, her deep sadness came through. Her sunken tired eyes radiated a hint of despair. He felt despondent for even knowing her … for his role in her sadness. But the proportions were all off. She barely even looked human. "It's terrible," Owen said.

"I think she's beautiful," Selkie said.

And with one word, Abby was. Owen could not fathom how one simple word from Selkie would completely change his perception of the poorly drawn portrait. The picture transformed as he looked at it with this new perspective. Her lips seemed to turn upward in a slight smile, and a twinkle sparkled in her eyes. Beneath the sadness shined a glimmering light of hope. I won't give up, Abby.

Selkie leaned her head into Owen's chest, and he placed his arm around her shoulder. "Thank you," he said. "I never drew anything like that before." Her oily, unwashed hair tickled his nose and he wanted to sneeze. "You smell kind of funny," he said. The phrase stoked a long forgotten memory.

"That hurts quite a bit coming from you." Selkie gave an embarrassed laugh. "I haven't showered for a while," she said. Then she became more solemn and withdrawn. The sadness that Owen saw in Abby's picture seemed to have affected Selkie. Her breath grew shallow. She licked her lips and hesitated before she whispered, "Owen, I'm a terrible thing. Please don't judge me."

"I'm the last person who would judge you," Owen said. "I've done my share of terrible things." He paused, waiting for her to say more, but she was quiet. "What happened?" he asked.

"I made a disastrous choice. But I swear it wasn't my fault … I was led astray."

"I'm sure it will be okay," Owen said. "What did you do?"

Selkie hesitated again before answering. She seemed overwrought ... an admission that fate steered her wrong, kept her off balance. Finally, she muttered, "My husband … heinous and corrupt … I let him free. And just like that, four people, who I have loved my entire life, are dead." With the last statement she choked back a sob. "I hate it … I hate fate."

Owen quietly held her tight. He experienced a lot of evil things in his short life, but he could not figure out what to make of this confession. It all sounded so crazy, but he already promised he wouldn't judge her. "So, what do you do now?" was all he could think to ask.

"I sit here and draw," she answered. "Trying to make sense of it." She pulled out a fresh new drawing pad and started sharpening her pencils. "Drawing saves me from any more poor choices."

"What about the poem. Can it undo what you started?"

"I'm so afraid of that world," Selkie said. "I'm not even sure if it is real." Tears streamed down her cheek. "I can't even tell you who gave it to me. I've never been so frightened in my entire life. I can't make another mistake like that. Everything I ever believed in is wrong. I thought the land of the faerie was supposed to be a beautiful … wonderful place, but it is filled with evil."

"It has to mean something" Owen said. "It's too weird. Do you think you might be able to figure out what it means?"

"I'll try," Selkie said. "But it could make things worse … much worse." She was drawing a light large oval on the reverse side of a piece of smooth sulfite paper and began right away with the eyes and nose. Her fingers were strong and confident of their position. "Do you think you can come back tomorrow?"

She stopped her drawing for a moment and gazed eagerly at Owen for his response. "I think I can come," Owen said. Selkie wiped away her tears and gave a slight smile and returned to her drawing.

"Over the next few days, we need to spend some time cleaning our house," she said.

Jane Mosi

Jane watched Selkie smile from the darkened hallway. It brought a mix of joy and sadness. She had worked for days to create that simple elation, but now she seethed with anger. She couldn't understand how Owen helped Selkie in ways that she couldn't. Her father all over again.

I can be patient and understanding. I've devoted myself to her. Who is this kid coming in to steal away my Selkie? As the anger boiled, Jane found herself forgetting that it was she who invited Owen to their place.

For the evening meal Jane prepared fresh hot turkey smothered in gravy of donkey skin glue for strength. As a side dish she cooked rice with lycium fruit and morida root. The vegetables steamed along with Jane's temper. She needed Owen to help Selkie, so she couldn't do anything rash. She will have to bide her time and, when Selkie has recovered, she would make sure to separate them from each other. There are plenty of ways to accomplish that.

She dished up the dinner for Selkie, Owen and herself. With only two seats at the table Jane planned to eat at the counter. When ready, she called "dinnertime" down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Within a few minutes, Owen and Selkie came down the hallway. Selkie was wrapped around Owen's arm for support. "It's nice of you to join us," Jane said.

"Thank you," Owen said.

"I wasn't referring to you," Jane said, irritated at his presumption. "I meant Selkie. She had been taking her meals in her room."

Owen shrugged, "I still want to thank you for the dinner."

Jane mumbled a quick, "You're welcome." Then she began to enjoy her dinner.

Belladonna – it would take half as much for this scrawny kid. It will be easy, but not until I'm sure that Selkie is okay.

Tony Sacco

The short report folder made a smacking sound as it landed on his desk. "Here it is," Guerard said. "I thought you might want to read through it before I turn it in."

Tony shoved it back to Guerard. "Just tell me what it says." It didn't really matter, anyway. Regardless of the conclusions, the special assignment had ended. He enjoyed working with a detective, but without any evidence it was tough to develop any traction on the investigation.

"Tentative conclusion – wild animal attack; species unknown," Guerard said. "I think there may be some overtime in Animal Control this month."

Tony pulled the report back over and started leafing through it. He didn't expect much, but he wasn't sold on the wild animal story – not that the crazy shaman theory was any better. The state hazmat team created a swath of evidence destruction before the forensic replacements from Denver could examine the scene. They found nothing new. Any notes or computers were destroyed before the coroners could set up shop.

The bodies were gouged with ragged teeth marks which could have been human or a dog or a wolf or just about anything with teeth. An animal was the most likely explanation, but that creature crouched over Dr. Farr looked vaguely human. Spending the holidays with his family did nothing to stem the nightmares. Tony woke up in a cold sweat each night with visions of that demon. And what the hell happened to Jonesy?

"I'm not buying it," Tony said. Or is that just what he wanted to think so that he could remain on the special assignment? "Maybe we need to go back to Lake Pueblo and reexamine the scene."

"I know … I know," Guerard said. "But we've been back there twice already. I'm getting a little tired of Ranger Butz. That girl seems to be recovering from her ordeal … but every time we stroll around, she retreats to her happy place. She's had nothing to add and I'm getting pressure from on high to close this down. It's like they say, 'Whatever isn't impossible is implausible,' or something like that."

Tony laughed at the error. "I think you're trying to say 'when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.' "

"Yea that's what I meant. Who said that? Some brilliant guy like Socrates?"

"A brilliant philosopher named Sherlock Holmes said it many times. I thought every detective knew that. Have we really eliminated every possibility?" Tony asked.

"I think so … what else could it be?" Tony shook his head. Then Guerard changed the subject. "You know you're a smart guy. Why don't you try for detective?"

"I don't have the degree. After two years of college, I dropped out and just managed to earn an associate's degree. A few short months of police training and here I am," he opened his arms to embrace the cubicle, "for the rest of my working life."

"I'll put in a good word for you in Denver. We have an opening or two up there. And they will help you complete that degree." He picked up the report and waved, "I need to make a copy and then I'm outta here. Maybe I'll see you around … after I retire. I don't think I want to be spending too much time at Lake Pueblo."

"Not for the fish, anyway. Don't worry about the opportunity. I think the chief is more interested in it than I am. Have a good trip back."

"I'll see you. Keep Denver in mind. You're wasted here."

With Guerard's exit, Tony was alone once again. He headed to the cafeteria to have a late evening snack before going out on his first patrol in weeks. He missed the uncomfortable silence engendered by his parade to the vending machines. The New Year brought the same old prejudices. "Hi, everybody." He received a mumbled chorus of "hi's" accompanied by agitated coughs and throat clearings in return. He thought he might sit at a table to drag out the distress, but he reconsidered. With a wave he left with a soda and a Snickers bar leaving the rabble to wallow in their superiority. They all think they are so much better than I am.

He selected his route assignment from Nancy – the circuit out Northern Avenue, up North Pueblo, East on Tuxedo and down to Fourth Street returning to the station down Greenwood. If he weren't a police officer, the entire circuit would take a good thirty minutes; but tonight the trip through Mexicano territory would be eventful. It was perfect for his simmering temper. Tony didn't have a prayer of completing the circuit – just how he liked it.

As he drove around the city streets, the dark winter sky with its sliver crescent moon dampened his fiery disposition. The yellow city nightlights created eerie billowing shadows which swept through his patrol car. In the frigid city residential areas travelers were rare and fireplaces were overworked. It was just too damn cold for rowdy behavior. He worried this might become a boring night.

Unfortunately, he was wrong.

Rounding onto Twenty-Fourth Street from North Pueblo, he jammed on his brakes when he saw a curious bird gliding in the sky … circling … searching. Exiting his car to get a better look, he discovered his perception was off – it was further away than he thought. He had a difficult time focusing, but it had to be the size of an eagle with wings like a bat or even larger … much larger. He had never seen anything like it before. Maybe something escaped from the zoo? He watched it circle around the city sky then head back west. It was a fantastic sight. I'm in the wrong department; Animal Control is going to be busy this week.

The he recalled Jane's description of the noises that frightening night in the park. "I heard a loud flutter of wings." An uneasy tightness crept through his ribs. Like Javier with his asthma. When the creature receded in the horizon, Tony returned to his patrol with a renewed vigilance, but his thoughts rapidly reverted to that thing. Could it be a vampire bat? Or a condor … maybe?

Just past hearing the thumping of his tires over the railroad tracks, his thoughts drifted back to his police duty. It was not long before Tony finally found the opportunity to impart the violent wisdom of his frustration. Somebody raced out of the Loaf 'n Jug on seventeenth. At the same time a call came over the police band radio reporting a robbery. "Roger," Tony said into the handset, "this is Unit R12. I see him."

With sirens blaring, he pulled up onto the sidewalk to cutoff the escape path of the miscreant. That's always fun. He always thought he should have a clever phrase for these "gotcha" moments, but they never came to him when he most needed them. When he got out of his car he resorted to the tried and true. "What's your hurry, hombre?"

The kid dropped the bag and took a wild, flailing swing of his fist at Tony. Brilliant! And he's Mexican. Tony easily ducked out of the path and returned fire – first with a left upper cut to the rib cage; followed by a right haymaker to the glass chin. The kid dropped like a bucket of fresh-picked, below minimum wage produce. "Take that you fuckin' wetback! You're under arrest for theft and resisting arrest. You should have just gone back to where you came from."

Hearing the sirens the night manager of the convenience store jogged to the scene. With a rapid, barely comprehensible Mexican accent he said, "Gracias, officer. I've been having trouble with this one. I saw everything."

Saw everything? I hope he didn't hear everything. What did I say?

Tony pulled out a set of handcuffs and wrestled them onto the perp's wrists. "Thank you, sir. I'll get a statement from you in a minute. Let's see what was worth all of this trouble." He glanced in the bag, which was now evidence. "Little Debbie marshmallow pies? Are you serious? I guess you must really enjoy them."

He shoved the kid into the back seat of his cruiser. He noticed blood dripping from the spic's face. He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it onto the kid's chin. It was then he noticed his own bruised and bloodied knuckles. Blood. Dammit, I can't even have a little fun anymore.

A few hours later he was sitting on the table in his house while receiving the tender, loving care of Nurse Aileen. "You were suspended? Your first day back on patrol." She asked angrily while pressing hard against the wounds with a damp cloth. "For racial slurs?" After midnight, Tony could be forgiven for not knowing that Javier lay awake in his bed – listening to everything they were saying.

"Oww!" Tony said wincing against the pressure. "I don't think it was precisely a racial slur. Mexicans aren't a race, are they?"

Aileen tilted her head and gave Tony a look of utter contempt. "Tony, your own son is Mexican. How can you say these things? How can you even bear to think this way?"

He backpedaled. "The kid was resisting arrest. I fought back." He stretched out his other arm as though it were right there in front of them. "He swung at me first." Tony continued with a sigh. "It's a suspension with pay, pending the outcome of the investigation. I'm sure I'll be exonerated. The worst part – they had to let the kid go free. What a waste."

"You're going to have to stop fighting you know. If you are sick, there is a chance you could contaminate someone else." Aileen looked into Tony's eyes, leaned forward and kissed him with familiar warmth. "I need you to take more care."

"I will," Tony promised. And he meant it. But promises like this were sometimes difficult to keep. He decided this might be a good opportunity to change the subject. "You wouldn't believe what I saw in the sky tonight." He described this winged creature from a movie to his captivated wife.

"Amy Ott, saw a bird just like that. It's sounds creepy."

A few days off. This is not supposed to be an opportunity, but I may take the chance to stop in and find out how Jane is doing. I'll confide in her. Tell her what I saw; perhaps she'll open up.

Owen

Over the next several weeks, just like the cactus moon flower on the roof of the mill, Selkie blossomed out of her quiet anguish. All the while Abby was consumed by the Rubik's cube. Selkie's gradual, steady restoration was heartening. Delighted with a rare success, Owen found himself spending more time with her. The sharp contrast with Abby couldn't be clearer. With Selkie, he felt useful.

She slowly opened up about the horrors of the faerie land. As promised, Owen listened without judgment, but couldn't decide if this was a fascinating imaginative tale, or if she really traveled to this world. Her steadfastness convinced him of her sincerity. But mostly, he listened to the fantastical experience. His life was utterly banal in comparison. A few times he interjected the idea that anyone in her position would make those same mistakes.

"But not anyone would find themselves in this position," she protested. That's probably true.

At nightfall he returned to the steel mill where Abby studied and manipulated the cube, all the while ignoring his presence. After a number of nights, a decrepit odor of decay emerged and then intensified. Low moans escaped from the agonizing contraction of her abdominal muscles. The ting of plastic against ceramic rang through the mill when she dropped the cube and grabbed hold of her midsection. When the waves of pain moderated, she recovered the puzzle and returned to her analysis. As usual, Owen was at a loss to figure out how to help her.

Fuzzy images of colored dots and radiating distress from her bowels haunted him until he retreated to the sustenance provided by Charlie's magic dust. With one powerful sniff, the intrusive visions of colors faded. He relaxed into a wondrous stupor. His sleep was fitful and unsatisfying, but at least it was sleep.

In the beginning, Owen joined Selkie on the floor of her bedroom where she remained seated. On the second day she had showered and changed her clothes. The third he noticed that her bed sheets were ruffled. Maybe she got a good night's rest. On the fourth day, she was wearing some makeup and a few earrings. While eating lunch one day, Owen commented on the change. "You don't need the makeup," he said. "You're prettier without it."

"I'm an artist. It's what I do." she said. Her reddened cheeks glowed through the foundation. "Thank you," she whispered bashfully while studying her macaroni and cheese.

In between her stories, Owen enjoyed a few more attempts at drawing. Some pictures were ordinary and others were goofy, but none achieved the power of his first portrait.

Throughout these days, Owen exchanged very few words with Jane. He still had not forgiven her for the deceit with the saint's blood. The animosity seemed mutual – a few times he caught anxious, irritated glances from her. By the fourth day, her fuming looked positively hateful. Owen was glad when Selkie suggested that they travel to their new house on Goat Hill to restore it for habitation.

"You have a new house?"

"Uh huh. We inherited it from a friend."

"Why aren't you staying there?" Owen asked.

Selkie shrugged, "The house isn't really fit to move into."

With jackets on, she wrapped one arm around Owen's and pulled him and a bucket of cleaning supplies toward Goat Hill. Within the city limits the house enjoyed a driveway which snaked past the tract housing of the street below. The mansion overlooked the interstate. "Wow, he must have been a good friend," Owen said.

"He was," she said with a solemn expression as she unlocked the front door.

The fully furnished inside of the mansion was dark, enormous and chilly. And the odor was stale and musty. "Let there be light," Selkie said as she flicked on the switch for the two story foyer. "And there was light … I love saying that." He heard the quiet thump of the furnace when she turned on the thermostat. It was already warmer than his normal accommodations.

To Owen's surprise, she opened up the cellar door and headed down to the basement. "Don't you think you should start cleaning in the upstairs? You would be able to move in right away."

"No, first the inner sanctum," Selkie answered.

At the top of the steps she tugged on a dangling string. A single incandescent light made little headway against the darkness. He almost slipped on the worn stone steps. Selkie descended into the darkness and turned on another light. "Usually, we prefer candles, but not today."

Owen took a much more measured pace for fear of some sort of angry basement monster. With no monster forthcoming (he must be biding his time for a better opportunity), Owen took a look around.

The basement reminded Owen of the steel mill. It reeked of mold and dampness. On the walls, made from stacks of decaying stone and mortar, someone painted red images just like Abby's drawings at the mill. The center of the dirt floor held a solid stone altar. In front of the altar, two stone arches were placed facing each other. Owen tapped on them and decided they were paper maché. The humming, mechanical gray furnace looked out of place in the ancient decor. On one wall and on the altar, Owen spotted a half-dozen steel shackles at varying height. He picked one up, expected the hinges to be rusted shut, but with a clank he tested the functionality – good as new. "What are these for?" he asked.

"Are you into that sort of thing?" Selkie asked with a grin.

Owen didn't even know what "that sort of thing" was.

Noticing his expression she continued, "We never used them in our rituals. I can imagine what sort of ceremonies the original owners intended … animal sacrifices and the like. Nothing too kinky."

Owen felt uneasy at the low ceiling and gloomy darkness. "This is an evil place," he said.

"Let's see if we can fix that," Selkie gathered water and bleach in the buckets and gathered some hand brushes with stiff nylon bristles. "Here grab one," she said handing him a brush. "We need to get rid of these symbols."

"Why do we need to clean these?" Owen wondered. "Aren't these just like Abby's symbols at the mill?"

"These are nothing like your symbols. Yours symbols are of protection – these are lures. They are meant to attract evil."

Over the next few days, they spent their time scrubbing the walls clean. Selkie wasn't satisfied with simply removing the blood. She needed to remove all traces of residue. The blood left a dark stain after it was gone. Finally, Selkie tried vinegar after the bleach. The cleansing became much more effective, but the smell was nauseating – or worse when combined with the effects from Charlie's powder. It required almost a week, but finally the basement walls were scrubbed clean.

Owen had grown so used to this routine and the idea of finding a simple pleasure in someone's company that his sleeping habits meandered back to almost normal. Out of boredom, his shifts of watching Abby grew shorter so that he could go to sleep earlier. Each morning he woke up earlier to enjoy a breakfast with Jane and Selkie before heading over to the house on Goat Hill.

During this time, Owen asked about the poem only once. He also asked about Jane's bitterness. Selkie dismissed his questions outright. "I don't think it means anything," she insisted. Owen wasn't sure if she was talking about Jane or the poem. "We've had a tough time with our friends' death. I think it's me she's angry at." She shook when she said it. She was afraid.

What little hope he had remaining rested with that poem. He needed to understand it. When things settle down, he thought, I'll raise the question again.

After about a week, the basement was cleaned of all but its "negative aura" as Selkie called it. This power-cleaning involved some sort of sacred renewal ritual; but it would have to wait until a special, hallowed day. They moved to the upstairs to restore the first floor to habitability. It still feels wrong – but better than the mill and, as if to prove his point, he fell asleep one night in a spare bedroom.

He jolted awake to a nightmare of twisting, colored birds wheeling and swooping in defensive evasion. He was alone in the darkened house. He made his way out the door, stumbling back to the mill under the frigid waxing crescent moon. Glancing up, he noticed a large bat illuminated by the stars. Abby? No – even larger. Drowning in cowardice, he buried himself in the shadows hiding from the creature. Then, he hurried back to the mill and found comfort in Charlie's powder.

Routines can't continue forever, and it was on one such night that Owen encountered the affliction of an empty plastic bag. He paced back and forth until he remembered a second baggie in his pocket. Rice – He downed a few grains, but it was no help. Disturbed by sharpened visions of rotating colors – Abby's focus on the Rubik's cube - he couldn't sleep. Finally, agitated with uncertainty, Owen braved the putrid odor and climbed into the cold crucible next to her. He watched her unravel the patterns.

For the first time in weeks, clarity grew within his thoughts. He could almost understand what Abby saw when she studied the cube. Her twists had a purpose. Through Abby, he became involved and, in turn, captivated by the patterns. There was a beauty in the structure that he hadn't noticed before.

As his awareness grew, Abby gained confidence. She twisted the puzzle with more conviction. In a few hours the first side, the blue side was complete. She spun the puzzle in her hands to study the new patterns. With a furious twisting, she moved the sides through recognizable algorithms; negotiating the patterns to realign the colors. Almost before he could believe it, the puzzle was solved. Sixteen squares on each side matched – the oranges with orange and greens with greens. Staggering – her understanding in that apparently simple cube was mystical.

Abby rotated the cube in her hands studying the matching colors. She let out a sigh of satisfaction. "That was really tough," she said. With stiff hair crinkling Abby settled her head into Owen's ribs.

Owen coughed from Abby's rancidity. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't expect the gift to trouble you so much."

"What?" Abby said with a huge grin of satisfaction. "Don't be sorry. I loved it. Thank you. I think this was the most difficult puzzle I've ever tried." She held the cube out in front of her and stared at the colors. "Look at it. Isn't it amazing?"

"Yeah, it is," Owen agreed. "Would you like me to mix it up again? You can try to solve it one more time."

"Why would I want that?" Abby asked. "I solved it. We'll keep it just like this."

Bluish veins appeared on Abby's forehead and cheeks. She jerked forward with a rumbling wail. For a good fifteen seconds Owen felt the torment reflected in his midsection – an insubsantial echo of Abby's torment.

"How long has it been?" Abby asked when the pain subsided.

"How long has what been?"

"How long have I been working on the puzzle?" Her face contorted in an angry grimace. "How long since I've eaten?"

"I don't know," Owen said trying to remember. It was before Christmas. "Maybe three or four weeks."

"Weeks?" A tear ran down Abby's disfigured cheeks. Her happiness over the puzzle faded from their awareness. She tilted her head back into Owen's side. "Please," she said, "I don't want to kill anymore."

Owen rubbed his hand over Abby's shoulder for comfort. "I'll try to help. What will happen if you don't eat? How long before you die?"

"I don't know. I don't think it would kill me, but I'd be in torture. I think I'd rather die."

Owen finally figured out the puzzle. She wanted to eat … she just didn't want to kill anybody. This was his job – his calling. His purpose in life. Not cleaning out some random basement. He was going to have to find the strength.